Outside the large picture window through evergreen trees, the evening light spread across the lake and above the Cascade Mountain range. Wrapping her finely knit shawl around her shoulders, Anna sat staring. She felt so disoriented, could not absorb all that had happened these last years. The calm and beauty here, the upheaval across the seas. She shook her head to the sky above.
Anna was the last of her family to escape the horrors of the Armenian Genocide in Turkey. She and her husband, Arman, had found so many different ways to get their children away from the discrimination and violence. One son was even smuggled away in a shipment of figs. Their youngest son, Hagop, barely escaped only after being imprisoned and tortured.
Her elder daughter, Anahit, had been sent away from home at only thirteen years old to live with a German family. Later, she had graduated from the University of Berlin and now had been in the United States for more than a decade. She had fallen in love with a successful attorney, and they had a good life that they now shared with slowly healing Anna.
It was 1923. Five months ago, Anna was lying in a cot in a small cottage on the island of Samos, being cared for by a Greek fisherman and his wife after being saved from nearly drowning in the Mediterranean Sea. Now, she was living in a beautiful mansion in Seattle, Washington, surrounded by her daughter’s loving family, including three grandchildren. Her head spun with the contrast.
Anna was sixty-three years old, elderly for the time. Even her daughter called her “YaYa”, grandmother in Armenian. Her once raven hair was now silvery-gray and her large ebony eyes were hooded with heavy eyelids. She was slender and still agile. She only wore black or dark colors, which she had done since the death of her husband twenty years before. Now the fabrics were finer: silk, heavy brocade, and merino wool. She wore no makeup except a slight wash of lipstick. Her skin was smooth for her age, little wrinkled. Fluent in English, she could easily communicate in America, though her accent was heavy.
“YaYa? Oh, there you are. Mama told me to get you for dinner.” Her nine-year-old grandson came close and put an arm around her back, looking into her face. “Are you hungry, YaYa?”
“Yes, Teddy, thank you for coming to get me.”
Anna was so thankful that her dear grandson, his five-year-old brother and their two-year-old sister lived in a peaceful, safe place. They would never be exposed to the horrors that she had lived through and had tried to protect countless children from. Taking a few fresh breaths and focusing on her grandson and the wonderful aromas winding up the stairway, she got up and walked downstairs, her left hand on the banister, her right hand holding the small, firm hand of her grandson.
Dolma, roasted chicken with lemon and oregano, pita bread, olives, and tomatoes were all arranged on platters across the large dining room table. Crystal glasses, fine china, and silver were set at each place. Teddy sat next to his YaYa, excited to begin the meal.
After they all closed their eyes, the traditional grace was spoken: “Jash-a-getz-ook. In peace let us eat this food which the Lord has provided for us.” The hearty dinner was enjoyed by all, including Anna, who was slowly getting used to the bounty in her new home. As they ate, the conversation was animated around the table. She loved how the children were really listened to when they told about their day or about an interest; so many times she had seen adults brush children aside, but this this was how it should be. She smiled. A loving family, her family.
Teddy’s words tumbled out, “And then Freddy brought over his red bicycle and we went biking over to the park. At the park we found Jimmy and Tim, and they wanted to play with us and then…and then….”
Five-year-old David chimed in, “Can I go, too, next time?”
“Well, you are still learning your balance on your bike, David.” His mother answered.
“I will practice more and then I can go!”
Everyone at the table nodded and smiled at the little boy’s determination.
Oh, these children’s lives are so far away of the sufferings in Turkey. Anna thought about the burning of her community, including the orphanage that she and Arman had founded, and that she had protected after his death for so long. In the burning of Smyrna so many had been massacred, burned alive, or drowned, including babies and children. The horror rose in her mind and crushed her heart, making her chest tighten, though her face was mostly impassive. The dinner conversation continued around her as she slowly came back to the room.
“YaYa, are you alright?” Her daughter looked at her with loving concern filling her dark eyes.
“Ayo, ayo. Yes, yes.” The old woman nodded her head.
Her grandchildren were protected from the stories of the Armenian genocide, but the adults were aware of the huge loss and suffering. Anahit and Paul, Anna’s son-in-law, knew it would take a long time for Anna not to be so weighed down by the images and feelings of suffering, if ever she would recover. All they could do was love her and give her a nurturing home in which to heal and have a good life.
“Paul, Mother and I had a lovely garden tour today. It was a beautiful day for the beauty of the landscapes to be enjoyed.” Anahit beamed across the table, looking at her mother and then at her husband.
“I liked being with you today in all the flowers, trees and green lawns,” Anna replied. My family needs me to be okay, needs to see me be in this now…I will try, I will try.
Just then, two-year-old Emma toddled over to her grandmother and reached her chubby little hands up. “YaYa, YaYa.”
Anna lifted her young granddaughter onto her lap. As she cuddled the curly-haired girl, her warmth and softness filling her lap and bosom, Anna smiled, closed her eyes and gently rocked. She quietly sang, making up the words, “Rest your head my little one, rest on me. All is well my little one, may it ever be.” Soon Emma was asleep in her grandmother’s embrace.
After the children were tucked into their beds, Anahit came into Anna’s room, helped her into bed, fluffing the pillows and snuggling the quilt around her. She then unbuckled her own shoes and lay next to her mother, holding her close. No words were spoken, in the silence love was overflowing.
The next morning, Anna sat with her grandson Teddy at the beautiful window to the lake continuing her teaching him her favorite morning prayer, both in Armenian and English:
“As the sun rises, may your hope rise up in me. As the birds sing, may
your love flow out of me. As the light floods into this new day, may
your joy shine through me. I come before you, oh Lord, and drink in
this moment of peace, that I may carry something of your hope, love
and joy today in my heart.”
Later that day, Anna and Anahit were in the kitchen preparing baklava together for a large family gathering that evening. Anna got impatient, “You are making the philo wrong!” Her tone was snappy as she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Voch lav, voch lav. (Not good, not good.)
Anahit left the room abruptly, mumbling to herself. When she returned after a short while, her mother had taken the hint and they worked together silently. Soon, Anna’s hand gently tapped Anahit’s shoulder, “Kneres. I’m sorry.” Her eyes searching her daughter’s.
Anahit nodded and put her arm around her mother, hugging her slightly. She empathized with Anna’s layers of feelings. But she had been away from her mother since her young teens, and had adapted her own recipes in cooking ever since. She also had sadness about those separation years, however protective they had been.
That evening, when two more of Anna’s adult children, Dapne and Hagop, and their families came to Anahit and Paul’s, the baklava dessert was enjoyed heartily. As Anna sat on the velvet sofa, holding Dapne’s hand, watching and listening to her adult children and grandchildren, she knew she was blessed, and they were blessed to all be safe. Her eyes beamed and a broad smile spread across her still-beautiful face. She nodded at Anahit across the living room.
“Oh, YaYa, you look so radiant right now,” Hagop exclaimed to his mother, so glad to see her in a happy moment.
“Aastvats lavn e. God is good.”
A note from the author: This story is fiction, inspired by my own family history and the true events of Armenian Genocide and the burning of Smyrna.
Author: Wendy Lamson Collier
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